What It Is To Burn
by pale-jonquil
Summary: Various scenes from England and Belgium's long history together. He's under a spell, but he's not cursed.


**What It Is To Burn**

.

_Therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron...  
but, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear.  
Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better.  
_— William Shakespeare,_ Henry V_

_.  
_

There's always a fire in his chest when he's near her.

He first noticed it when they were young, when Rome first brought them all together.

For years he thought her a witch, his chest pained him so much — but it hurt even worse when he found himself without her.

He's under a spell, but he's not cursed.

* * *

Here's a secret, and it's one of many: Arthur hates seeing people cry.

It makes him squirm and fidget, makes him shift impatiently from one foot to the other. Makes him feel like a foolish oaf with useless hands and leaden tongue. All he can think of in the midst of another's tears is how utterly _suffocating_ his skin feels, pulled too tight and in every wrong direction. It's selfish, but he can barely handle his own emotions sometimes, let alone other people's.

He comes upon her early one afternoon as she's crying — and to his great surprise, he only feels anger.

"Francis was teasing me and pulling my hair!" she wails, pausing to sniffle and rub her eyes. "And then he — he_ ran off with my ribbon!"_

His mouth set in a thin line, young Arthur lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, and walks away.

She watches him go and feels utterly abandoned to her ribbon-less fate. Rome gave her that ribbon for being a good girl — doesn't Arthur see the gravity of the situation? The seriousness of her predicament?

But he returns about an hour later, as simply as he left. His clothes are ripped, there's dirt on his face, and his hair is far messier than usual.

He thrusts his fist out to her, and there, nestled in his palm, is her ribbon — wrinkled, frayed, covered in as much dirt as he is.

"Oh," she breathes, wondering at him, her tears and the ribbon entirely forgotten.

"You needn't worry," he proudly smirks. "If you think _I_ look bad, you should see _him."_

* * *

"Tell me a secret," she murmurs one warm, lazy afternoon, the barest hint of a breeze teasing through the curtains. There are children giggling across the street, their laughter disappearing behind the slamming of a door. A car fades down the street, turns the corner, vanishes.

Arthur hasn't been sleeping, but the urge to rouse himself and awaken fully is unknown to him. For the past few hours he's only contentedly existed in the whimsical in between. He has a vague notion of measuring the length of his breaths against hers, and that is all. (That is _everything.)_

"A secret?" he thickly mumbles, the barest hint of his wrist upon her skin, one ankle atop hers.

"It's too hot for anything else."

He brings his lips to rest against the damp fabric of her thin shirt, because here's a secret, and it's one of many: He is utterly bound to her.

* * *

She knows everything about him.

She knows he never thinks about things — he only ever broods.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked him once, watching as he watched the rain.

"Nothing." He shifts in his chair and sighs. "Everything."

* * *

She knows he never really gave up practicing magic.

"Have you ever used magic on me?" she asked him once with a wink.

"If I had, you'd never know it."

* * *

Arthur drags her up the stairs, his fingers digging into her arm. Her cottage creaks and moans in protest around them.

He throws her bedroom door open with so much force it flinches against the wall and almost dares to shut again.

"Arthur — "

He brusquely tosses her onto her bed.

"Not a _word_ from you," he seethes.

She's trembling with — what can it be? _Fear?_ Surely not — it's only Arthur.

(Surely not, but possibly.)

She tries again as he begins rummaging through the clothes in her boudoir — indelicate in his wild-eyed rage, almost indecent — and carefully lifts a hand out to him.

"Arthur?"

He doesn't turn around.

"Speak again, and I shall rip out your throat."

Her hand falls limply upon the bed.

He carelessly tosses a corset at her.

"Put it on."

The cottage creeks as she blankly stares at the corset.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

She brings her hand up and clutches at her shirt — a man's shirt — but not out of any maidenly modesty.

"Elizabeta," she says, a last attempt at calm rationality before the dam inevitably breaks, "does this all the time."

"_Elizabeta,"_ he sneers, "has been fighting since she was a child — she learned to _walk_ holding a sword in her hand, for _Christ's_ sake. Whereas _you — "_

" — aren't good for anything, am I?"

He scoffs and rolls his eyes at her.

"_Am_ I?" she shouts, indignant anger quickly replacing any fear she might have had. He has no right to treat her this way — _no one_ does — and she knows what she did was justified. "Not good for anything except staying quiet and doing as I'm told, I suppose, and making nice clothes for everyone to wear. It's so _nice_ of you all, isn't it, to trade with me, to let me have my fun with my _arts and crafts."_

She dismissively waves a jittery hand. "Oh, but don't have _too_ much fun, now. You can have your trade, but that's it. Don't even think about making your _own_ decisions, or living your _own _life — oh, _no — "_

"You _stupid_ _little fool,"_ Arthur furiously spits, "that is not what this is about!"

He paces to and fro, like a caged animal. Tense, agitated. Provoked to something horrible.

"I wish to see you as the mistress of your own fate more than anyone else," he explains, steadying his voice, solemnity accentuating his words. "I will support you in any endeavor you wish to pursue — but not like this." Finally, his eyes soften. "I cannot condone what you did today. I _cannot."_

"Please don't patronize — "

"Do you have _any_ idea what can happen when people who are inexperienced with combat so impulsively, so _recklessly_ rush into war?"

She doesn't even blink. "Alfred did it. And he _won."_

Arthur reels back as though she'd slapped him. He turns away and picks back up his beastly pacing, buries his fingers in his hair, twisting and pulling. If she were a man, he knows he would break her nose for a comment like that. For the insolence shown to the mighty British Empire, and — it shouldn't still _hurt_ so goddam much —

"_Do you realize how fucking lucky you were?"_ he roars, rounding on her and grabbing her shoulders. "That I happened to come upon you at just the right moment and was there to pull you out of the way? You almost _died_ today, Marie. You almost — no, _look at me_ — I almost lost you because you were selfish and decided to do what _you_ wanted to do, never mind the risks involved — and when I expressly forbade you from doing so! I told you to stay _here,_ in this cottage, where I knew you would be safe, and you _didn't._"

He forces her down onto the bed, face-first, and holds her there. He pulls a small knife from his boot and clenches her shirt between his fingers.

"No," he sneers, "you _bound_ yourself and dressed as a man and traipsed out onto the battlefield as though you were on holiday. I needed you safe and _here,_ Marie. I needed to know I could look out across Waterloo field at any given time and find at least some comfort in knowing you were safe."

He begins cutting her shirt in ragged twain. The material is cheap and coarse, it resists, makes an awful noise as it finally gives way to his knife.

She didn't want this — she only wanted to —

"Arthur — !" she cries, panicked.

"And if you had _died_ and _left_ me here," he snarls, his breathing painful and his chest suddenly tight, "then so help me, you'd have the blood of this entire godforsaken world on your hands, Marie, because I know I'm not a good man and I would be an even worse one without you. I would set fire to _everything_ just to find the blackguard who took you from me. I'd split his skull and I'd _enjoy it."_

Her shirt ruined before him, he stares down at the thick cloth strips binding her.

His eyes begin to sting, and his vision suddenly blurs. He dips his head to rest against her spine and squeezes his eyes shut.

"I needed to know you were _safe,"_ he brokenly whispers, letting the knife slip from his fingers.

Silence reigns then, until she breaks it by taking a deep, deep breath.

"I almost died," she chokes out around a sob, as though only truly realizing it now. "I saw the French lieutenant in front of me, and I saw the bayonet, and then there was _you_ — and your uniform was so red, and I didn't know if it was blood or just the fabric and — I _almost died — "_

The cottage settles and creaks around them as they hold each other, and long after that.

* * *

She has the chance to go back one afternoon, after the Great War begins. There's nothing within her little house she really needs, but there is something she wants.

She runs to the spare bedroom and searches through the closet. Inside is a man's wrinkled dress shirt.

She can't remember how long she's had it, can't remember when he left it. She's been meaning to return it to him but can never remember to mention it when they're together.

She doesn't know when she'll see him again. And, inexplicably, the first thing that came to her mind was his shirt.

* * *

Arthur paces in his drawing room, wringing his hands.

Eventually, and completely without ceremony, a fairy tumbles in through the open window — for one so tiny, she makes an awful racket — and he races over to meet her.

"Well?" he frantically inquires.

The fairy takes a moment to brush her wild hair out of her face before smiling up at him.

_She's so pretty, Albion!_

"Yes, yes, Honeymead," Arthur peevishly sighs, "but — tell me, what did she say? How did she look? Does she despise me? Or did she — did she _laugh?"_

Rather than flying onto his outstretched hand, Honeymead clambers up into his palm by way of his fingers, grunting inelegantly with her effort.

_Oh, no, not at all,_ she promises after she catches her breath and sets about readjusting her dress. _She keeps your letter on her dressing table. She reads it and then rereads it, and it makes her smile and blush and giggle._

Arthur imagines it, the hesitant beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

_But then I accidentally slipped off the pearl I was sitting on and was forced to reveal myself._

Arthur's smile vanishes and his eyes go wide. "Oh, _no…"_

_Well, I simply had to after that! _Honeymead says with a defensive shrug of her shoulders. _The noise I made as I got tangled up in her hair ribbons —_

Arthur groans and covers his eyes with his free hand.

— _and then her face powder made me sneeze, and then I stubbed my toe against her hairbrush, and the yelp I made when my bum —_

"Don't say _bum,_ dearest. It's slang, and dreadful."

_When my…bottom? Yes — when my bottom landed on one of the bristles was most undignified, I'm sorry to say. I declare I might never recover from the shame of it._

Honeymead sadly shakes her head and sighs.

_But she wasn't afraid of me! _she adds, quickly recovering her natural good cheer. _She said she'd heard ever so much about me, and that she'd been wanting to meet me for the absolute longest time. Can you imagine? Why, I felt famous, I did! Like Titania herself! And then she asked me if I would deliver something to you._

"And what would that be, exactly?"

Jumping from the palm of his hand, Honeymead flies up and lays a kiss upon his cheek.

* * *

This is his punishment for being so thoughtlessly stupid, he knows.

Why didn't he just destroy the thrice-damned letter? Why even write her a love letter he never actually intended to send her at all?

"I — " he begins, too consumed with his own mortification to notice the way she looks up at him, the way she leans forward in her chair.

He shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing this first attempt.

With a frown, Marie slouches and glances away.

He sits in the chair opposite her, but he can't keep his leg from restlessly bouncing up and down, can't keep his fingers from tap-tap-tapping against the arms of the chair. He hurls himself out of it and goes to stand before the window.

"We — " he tries again, turning and gesturing vaguely in the space between them. Again, he's oblivious to the hopeful, expectant look on her face.

He clears his throat and retreats to the fireplace, gripping the mantel.

For his final attempt, he raises a finger, opens his mouth —

She nods encouragingly at him, hanging on his every word —

But he only drops his hand and snaps his mouth shut.

With a nod and a poor excuse for a bow, he hastens to quit the room. Marie watches him go, too bewildered to do anything else.

* * *

He's wearing the shirt.

He's standing in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, reading a book while he waits for his tea to steep.

She rises from her seat and hugs him from behind, pillowing her cheek against his back and listening to his heartbeat. It beats steadily beneath a lifetime of scars and burns, seasons of who was, who is, what's yet to come.

Absently, he covers one of her hands with his own and turns the page of his book.

* * *

It was a rather dull afternoon. The only thing worth mentioning is that Arthur's hands have been shaking so badly he spilled his tea twice.

That should have warned her, for Arthur never wastes tea.

"It's been cloudy all week, hasn't it?"

"Yes, quite."

And then Arthur rises to his feet, interrupting himself ("I believe the roses shall bloom early this — "), and goes to stand before the window, as though in a trance.

"What is it?" she asks, watching him closely. "Is something wrong?"

"I — forgive me, it's only — " He glances away at something, his attention as quivering and rapt as a feline's. "It's only the lions are so very _loud_ today."

"Lions?"

"Yes." He looks at her then, his eyes glittering and sweat gathering on his brow. He claws at his cravat, twists his fingers into it, jerks the cloth away from his stifling skin. "They roar sometimes, but never this loudly. Never loud enough to — to scramble my brains…"

And then he falls to the floor, pulls at his hair and screams, howling to a moon that won't rise for hours yet.

She rushes over to him, spilling more tea, and gathers him in her arms.

"Don't touch me!" he screams, alternating between shoving her off and pulling away from her. "Your touch burns!" he protests, though his skin feels ice cold beneath her fingers.

He looks up her through the blistering haze of laudanum, through caverns measureless to man, but doesn't really see her. When he gets like this, even she — _she,_ of all people — is a vile, hated stranger to him, no more than some strange foreign woman wailing for her demon lover.

"Come back," she brokenly whispers as he thrashes in her arms. "Please, come back to me."

Does Arthur have the opium, or does the opium have him?

She doesn't know anymore.

* * *

Perhaps it's only that anyone would feel old around Alfred.

The countdown out of the old year and into the new has begun, and 1925 will arrive in only _ten, nine, eight —_

The revelers have squeezed themselves in front of the tall windows of Alfred's New York City apartment to watch the ball drop, but Arthur falls back and lingers in the shadows.

One hand snaking around the curve of Marie's hip, his drink in the other, they watch from their dark little corner as the world spins and tumbles into 1925.

But they're old — or at least old enough to have stopped counting the years as they pass. It's no longer a brave new world to them — it's the same world it's always been, though they delight in discovering it anew through each other. They only measure time in heartbeats and thumbs across cheekbones now, in tenderly uneven pulses, around the bottomless joy of falling ever deeper into someone.

_Three, two, one — !_

When she looks up at him and simply tells him _good morning,_ he kisses her and lets time and the world fall up, down, and around them.

* * *

_When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create no trouble in thy breast...Remember me, remember me, but, ah! Forget my fate..._

He looks out and over No Man's Land, and he knows he's going to spend the rest of his life making up for this war.

The war has taken everything from him, but Arthur has a horrible feeling it's not done with him just yet. Everything is gone, or going — his men, his horses, the very identity he has spent centuries upon centuries crafting for himself. The war has taken everything, and he fears it will eventually take his soul as well.

Marie flings open the door when he finally returns to the command fort that night. Her face, as drawn and gaunt as his, lights up when she sees him. She throws her arms around his neck, and he gracelessly lets her catch him.

"We were all so worried about you, when it started getting late and you didn't come back." She gingerly pulls away and makes as though to lead him down the entryway. "Come inside, there's food."

He says nothing, only reaches out and grabs her arm. He pulls her quickly to him and covers her chapped lips with his own.

In the warm aftermath of their first kiss, she holds her breath and stares at him, stunned.

"When this war is over — "

Ghostly images of No Man's Land from earlier that afternoon flicker before him, and he swallows thickly.

"_If_ this war ends," he amends, "you are going to put on your best dress and you are going to have dinner with me."

After a moment, she slowly nods her consent. If their time isn't up yet, if this isn't the end of the world, then it certainly feels like it's close.

And if that's truly the case, then all this waiting has been foolish.

* * *

It began with a slight tapping against her window, and she sluggishly rolled over in the bed, thinking it merely the beginnings of the English rain.

But then there was an awful _banging_ against the window, making the glass shake violently.

Marie bolts upward, startled.

It happens again — another _bang_ against the window, and call her crazy, but she has the distinct feeling it's neither thunder nor lightning. She throws on her silk dressing gown and shuffles to the window, cautiously turning the handle and stepping out onto her balcony.

"Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon!"

None of the infamous English weather — only its infamous ambassador, grinning up at her from the garden below and looking _far_ too pleased with himself.

"Arthur," she hisses, _"hush._ The neighbors — "

He throws out his arms and mischievously glances around him.

"I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight!" he gleefully announces.

"Arthur — "

"Speak again, bright angel!"

"_Arthur."_

He clasps his hands over his heart. "It is my _soul_ that calls upon my name!"

"Arthur Kirkland, if you don't answer me _this instant _— wait." She leans over the railing and squints down at him. "Where on earth are your shoes?"

He answers her by twirling his cane in his hand and shrugging. And — is that a smirk? _It had better not be a smirk._

And then she realizes.

She looks around her on the balcony and finds his shoes. Without a moment's hesitation she grabs them and angrily hurls them down at him.

"You ridiculous _ass!"_ she shouts as he laughs and raises his arms to shield himself. With a cringe, she remembers her neighbors and lowers her voice. "What do you mean by coming here this late — or early, I don't even know — and waking me up like this?"

She sweeps into her room before he can answer, slamming the window shut behind her. A few moments later, she's storming out of the house to meet him in the garden.

"It is my lady!" he exclaims, hopping on one foot and struggling to tie one of his shoes. _"Oh,_ it is _my love!"_

She marches up to him, points a finger in his face, and is about to scold him something awful when he grabs her finger and drags her to him, one arm encircling her waist.

"Oh," he murmurs huskily, his eyes softening and roaming all over her face, "that she knew she were."

He leans in to kiss her, but she plants her hands on his chest and firmly pushes him away.

"Arthur, stop playing games," she warns him. "I'm not in the mood. I was meeting with your politicians all day today — or yesterday, _whenever_ — and I'm exhausted."

"O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?" He's grinning like a wolf, so brazenly and maddeningly undeterred, as his arms find their way around her again.

"_First_ of all," she says, grabbing his wrists and forcefully removing him from her person, "that is the silliest play he ever wrote."

"I _beg_ your pardon!" Arthur cries, affronted. "That is a _wonderful_ play — "

"And second of all, I do believe you are drunk."

"Oh, yes. That."

Arthur considers this for a moment.

"I may have had a drink or two," he allows, removing his hat and placing it on her head.

She gives him a look.

"Or twenty."

She rolls her eyes and groans. She knows him, and knows he's not really drunk — not yet. He has a high tolerance for alcohol, and before he completely dissolves into a weepy, muttering, regretful mess, he always lets himself honestly uncoil, lets himself be unguarded for the briefest bit.

"But don't let's call it _drinking,"_ he hastens to add. "That makes it sound terribly uncivilized. I should think it was more of a — a _celebration, _like."

"And just what, exactly, have you been celebrating?"

"Why — " He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. "Your independence, of course."

He watches her turn from him and walk to the garden fountain. She sweeps his hat off her head and places it atop the head of a marble cherub. She sighs, deep in thought, folding one arm under the other and resting her cheek against her hand.

"Oh," he whispers, so suddenly overcome by her that it's almost sobering, "that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek."

"Arthur, what are you doing? What is all this really about?"

"I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, remembering how I love thy company."

The tired, defeated look on her face makes him feel a little guilty. He clears his throat and walks up to her.

"I am here," he says, propping his cane up against the fountain and gently taking her hand in both of his, "because — because I love you." He brings her hand close to his lips without actually kissing it, gazing at it intently as though worshipping it. "And now I feel as though I can finally say it. As though there's finally a chance we can be together — just as we always should have been."

She squeezes his fingers. "You know that's not true."

He steps away from her, and when her hand slips from his, he makes no effort to keep or retrieve it.

"I had a feeling you would say something to that effect. And that's the reason I've been drinking, I suppose." He looks at her with confused eyes, hurt and inconsolable. "Why, Bel? Why do you refuse me? Do you — do you not care for me? Not even the slightest bit?"

"Arthur, I _do_ care for you." For as much as she knows she's right, the way he's looking at her makes her heart turn violently in her chest. He looks like a lost child. She wants to hold him in her arms and never let him go.

"Then — _why?"_

"Think about it," she gently entreats him. "After dreaming of it for so long, I'm _finally_ able to stand on my own two feet and make my own decisions. I won't be seen as merely a part of someone or something — I'm officially my own woman now. My own _country."_

She lets the thought linger in the air, savoring it. After indulging herself, she picks back up a serious tone.

"But think of how it would look if I suddenly just jumped right into bed with you," she continues.

Arthur stares at her for a moment. Eventually one corner of his mouth creeps upwards.

"No!" she orders, and sharply pinches his cheek. "Don't _literally_ think about it! I only meant…this is an incredibly important time for me. My future depends on the choices and actions I make during these first few years. I earned my independence and my sovereignty, and now I've got to show everyone I'm more than capable of keeping it and doing well by it. I'll never be taken seriously by _anyone_ if the first thing I do is rush into a relationship with one of the signers of the treaty."

Arthur snorts. "We'd hardly be _rushing."_

And then he turns up his nose and straightens his spine. "We've been each other's constant companion for years." He eyes her up and down imperiously. "What makes me good enough to play the part of friend all this time, but _not_ good enough to finally play the part of lover?"

"That's the Empire talking," she darkly accuses, narrowing her eyes. "Only the Empire would think someone belongs to him. Only the Empire would think he was owed something more than just friendship from a woman, especially after the treaty's been signed."

"You say you care for me, madam, but how much longer am I to be made to wait? Another hundred years? Two? Three?"

"Fine words coming from you! _You,_ who wrote me that letter telling me how much you loved me, and then never even acted on it! Not once!"

She shoves at his chest, walking him backward along the garden path.

"Do you have _any_ idea how many nights I couldn't sleep because I was up worrying if it was all a _joke_ to you?" she yells, the neighbors be damned. "How could you write me such nice words, and then never _do anything_ about them? I've waited too, Arthur!"

"You _stupid_ girl!" he yells back, the color rising in his cheeks. "Every single line in that letter was the absolute truth, but I never intended to actually send the damn thing! Do you _really_ think I was in any position to court you before now? It could have triggered a war between me and, oh, _I don't know,_ any of the handful of villains who have forced you to live with them your entire life. Or worse — you could have been used as a bartering tool between them and me, a _political pawn._ Is that what you would have preferred?"

He turns away from her and rubs his forehead. His head is spinning from drink and he can already feel the beginning of a headache.

"I have loved you and wanted you for _years,_ Marie," he quietly fumes, turning back to her. "But I only ever wanted you if was _your_ decision, if you _freely_ gave your heart to me. And now, you have the treaty to protect you. If anyone so much as dared question any decision you made, they'd be put in their place in an instant. You're finally able to stand on your own two feet and make your own decisions, you say — and what do you do?" He chuckles mirthlessly and shakes his head. He looks disgusted. "You hesitate, that's what you do."

He straightens out his waistcoat, adjusts his cufflinks. He makes a great show of pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time.

"I fear I would be very much remiss, madam, if I didn't stop to inquire how much longer you intend to string me along? How much longer am I expected to docilely allow myself to be used for your own entertainment? You are not some common tart, Marie. This behavior ill becomes you."

She reels back and slaps him.

Arthur stumbles backwards, loses his footing, and falls inelegantly onto a nearby bench.

"_Fuck!"_ he barks, holding his cheek. He winces and carefully sucks in a breath through his teeth.

She walks back into the house without sparing a single glance behind her.

* * *

_My darling —_ _for that is what you are. You could never be anything else to me._

_You know me better than anyone — better than my brothers, better than Port. Even better than Francis (but that is to remain strictly between us). So it should come as no surprise to you when I admit I am an infinitely selfish man._

_I want many things. I want __everything__._

_I want to set the clasp on your necklace, and then use that as an excuse to kiss your neck. I want to kiss your neck without needing the excuse of a necklace. I want to make you laugh the way you make me laugh. I want to hold you so close on cold days that you'll have no need for a blanket._

_I have always loved you, and no other. Even when I was young and foolish and so proudly kept my distance from you, blindly fixing my eyes to the sea and what lay beyond. I would have done better to have kept my eyes on the treasure waiting for me back on land. Even then I felt the pull of my heart, even then I loved you, but the feeling has been growing so rapidly every day that it rather frightens me sometimes. Nothing has ever held such a claim upon me, nothing has ever made my heart ache so wonderfully._

_Marie, I love you. Do you know how often I find myself watching your lips move when you speak, wishing I could capture them with my own? I want so many things._

_I love you, I love you, I love you. I would tell you every minute of every day if I could. I would make you feel my love, somehow, if I could. Is there any chance you'd let me press your body close to mine and let you feel my heartbeat? It beats only for you. It burns for you, you know — a light which never goes out. A fire that refuses to die._

_Darling, I've not paper enough to write down all the ways I love you, nor time enough to whisper in your ear how devoted I am to you. But know that you deserve the very best, and every day you are shaping me into a better man._

* * *

He's an early riser and she is not.

He would like, more than anything, to stay under the blankets with her, but he becomes fidgety. He never sleeps in and cuddles with her, but he makes up for it by always having a cup of tea ready for her when she eventually trudges down to breakfast.

She wakes this morning and stretches luxuriously in his bed, twisting in the bed sheets and uncoiling from leftover fragments of dreams.

Lifting a hand to rub at her eyes, she finds a ring upon her left ring finger — a simple, delicate little thing.

She stares at it for a moment, and when she finally realizes what it means, she has never leapt out of bed so fast in her life.

She bounds down the stairs and hurls herself around the corner, skidding to a halt in the kitchen doorway.

Arthur is there, making tea, as usual. His body stills and goes rigid when he hears her behind him, but he eventually turns to face her.

She only holds up her left hand to him, a hopeful, questioning look on her face.

He raises his eyebrows uncertainly at her.

"Will you?"

It takes her no time at all to run to him and throw her arms around his neck, because she will.

(She always has.)

* * *

Here's a secret, and it's one of many: Arthur has never used magic on her.

She's used it on him. He's under a spell, but he's not cursed.

.

_The End_

.

**Author's notes (please feel free to skip):**

*I have this headcanon that the nations don't really know if they're immortal or not. They know they have long life spans, they know they can take hits and wounds their humans couldn't possibly survive — but they always keep what happened to the ancients in the back of their minds. None of them want to chance anything. But they're also confused because China is an ancient and Turkey was once the Ottoman Empire. None of them are entirely for sure about their lives or their bodies or their perceived longevity and that _terrifies_ them.

*The Battle of Waterloo was fought in 1815. Belgium was officially recognized as independent by the Treaty of London in 1839, though they had already had de facto sovereignty since the end of the Belgian Revolution in 1831.

*Titania, queen of the fairies in Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_

*Laudanum was basically liquid opium. I have a great love of/obsession with the English Romantic period (1790 to 1830, roughly), and opium had a huge role in Romanticism. Thomas de Quincey's _Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_ is especially harrowing. Much has been made about English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge's addiction to it, especially with regards to his poem _Kubla Khan._ (I like to imagine it was Arthur who was the infamous Person from Porlock!) Lines I stole from _Kubla Khan:_ "caverns measureless to man," "woman wailing for her demon lover."

*I love the idea of Alfred trying to out-Gatsby Jay Gatsby in the '20s, which is why they're going into 1925, the year _The Great Gatsby_ was first published.

*The song Arthur remembers during World War I _(When I am laid in earth...)_ is commonly known as "Dido's Lament" from English composer Henry Purcell's opera _Dido and Aeneas. _I love opera so much! It's a beautifully sad song, and if opera isn't your thing, there are several wordless versions available to listen to.

*Arthur quotes from the balcony scene of_ Romeo and Juliet_ during the...uh...balcony scene.

Thank you! I hope you enjoyed! : D


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